


kickstart my heart

by deaddybear



Series: Lost Time [3]
Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Enabling, M/M, Toxic Relationship, Underage Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:47:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29988621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deaddybear/pseuds/deaddybear
Summary: the first night that tony and pickles meet, and what happens after.
Relationships: Antonio "Tony" DiMarco Thunderbottom/Pickles the Drummer
Series: Lost Time [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2092611
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	kickstart my heart

**Author's Note:**

> if you've seen my drawings of Hot Tony pls imagine them here hehe

The radio croons around Tony Di’Marco Thunderbottom as he tiredly tries to keep his car from hydroplaning, and he almost never even sees him. God, who in the hell would be dumb enough to hitchhike down the highway at two in the morning, in a torrential fucking downpour? Tony thinks about driving by as his headlights shine against a small frame in a leather jacket, and well, he might be a shitty person but...a pang of pity spikes through him. He takes a sip out of the open vodka bottle that sits perched between his legs as he drives, and he pulls over. 

“Hey, man! You fuckin’ crazy?” He rolls down the passenger side window, yelling over the clap of thunder above them. The person turns, red-rimmed green eyes flickering over, cigarette drenched between his teeth, and even in the darkness Tony is instantly shocked by this kid’s face. He’s like, weirdly gorgeous - his hair is slicked down completely from the rain, the light of the moon reflecting off the droplets in his crazy long eyelashes. The figure raises an eyebrow at him, “Whetcha lookin’ at, douchebaeg?” 

“Uhhh, I was...” Tony tries to find the words past his awkward stumbling, and he decides to cut himself off with a swig of the vodka in his lap. The person’s eyes follow the motion, eyes sparking with interest, “Aw, dood. You drinkin’ and drivin’?”

“Uhhhh,” Tony scratches at the stubble on his chin, before tilting the bottle to the figure and taking another swig. “No?”

The mild awe in the figure’s eyes sparks into full-blown brightness, and a grin cracks across his face at the same time that lightning strikes in the sky above them. Even in the darkness, Tony can see the expression, and he’s suddenly very aware that he might be in the middle of an important moment in his life, as he asks, “You need’a ride, man?” 

“You gaht another bahttle?” 

“I always got another bottle,” Tony says tiredly, and this person probably thinks he’s being cute or coy or whatever but...he does always have more booze. It always crawls back into his lap, thrusts itself into his hand and claws down his throat, and he couldn’t escape it even if he tried. He’s too young to mind it, now, but someday...he has a feeling it’s going to be a problem. 

The passenger door is opening and the overhead lights of the car turn on as the kid climbs into his seat. He shakes himself off, wet hair clinging to his face and neck, and then he looks at Tony. Really looks at him, and underneath the dim light, he suddenly looks eagerly stricken. 

“Aw, shit,” The kid breathes, swallowing, face flushing as his green eyes flicker over the brunette, and Tony quirks an eyebrow at him. Nobody’e ever looked at him quite like that before, and another one of those crooked grins blossoms across his face as he holds out a hand, “I’m Pickles.” 

“Tony,” he replies, giving it a shake, and then Pickles laughs as he shakes it back. 

“My hand was out fer the vadka, dood.” 

Tony can’t help it - he smiles, suppressing a laugh that threatens to bubble out of his throat. He passes him the bottle, watching as the redhead tips his head back and chugs as he asks, “So, where to?” 

-

Usually, Tony really doesn’t like...talking to people. He’s a bass player - he doesn’t want any type of spotlight. He’s content with just kinda standing in the shadows, lifting up the other parts of the band or the people in his life. But Pickles? He learns pretty fucking quick that the redhead makes him actually want to bring himself out of the shadows. 

They chat about easy stuff - how old they are (sixteen and seventeen), where they’re both from (Wisconsin and South Dakota), their favorite bands (Motley Crue and Guns ‘n Roses). Turns out Tony has his Motley Crue cassette in his car, and Pickles smashes drumbeats on the dash and belts out the lyrics to ‘Kickstart My Heart’ as he smokes half of Tony’s cigarette stash. Pickles could talk forever about how bad he wants his own guitar, about how he’s going out to LA to fuck up that city forever, and Tony has a feeling this kid is going to do exactly that when he gets there. 

By the end of the third and last vodka bottle, Pickles is drunk enough to talk about how he walked out on his family after a particularly brutal fight with his dad. He accidentally lets it slip that he’s got no money on him past bus fare, and that he hasn’t really thought things through yet but he’s going to figure it out because he always does. 

Tony doesn’t talk about his own problems - he merely hums in response, forcing his dark-rimmed eyes to stare ahead and not check to see if Pickles is breaking down over there or whatever. They both end up in a troubled silence, mulling over their respective problems. Maybe they were two miserable people who needed to bump into each other and have some fun. Tony gets an idea, the radio blasting around them as they approach a lit-up nightclub at a highway exit. 

“Hey. You got problems, I got problems. Somehow, I gotta feeling we both deal with ‘em the same way,” Tony says, gesturing to the bright lights of the club. Pickles raises an eyebrow, slow smile spreading across his face. His hair is finally half-dry, sticking up all over the place and curling against his neck, and Tony offers, “I do, um, got some stuff. If you’re into drugs or whatever.” 

“If I’m into drugs,” Pickles echoes, and then he bursts into laughter. “Oh, buddy. You gaht no fuckin’ idea. I been smokin’ and dealin’ government marijuana since I was a lil’ douchebaeg.” 

“Well...this ain’t kiddie stuff, man,” Tony says, gesturing to the glove box. Tony has been trying to be responsible, to try and stop letting himself fall into benders. Something about Pickles makes him want to be a little chaotic, though. The redhead himself looks a little nervous, honestly - Tony isn’t sure if he’s ever dropped acid before, but he has a feeling the kid won’t admit to it either way. Even still, he raises a challenging eyebrow at Pickles, and asks even as he pulls into the bar parking lot, even when he knows Pickles’ answer, “You up for it?” 

“Fuck yeah, dood. Let’s get fuckin’ slahppy.” 

They park. Tony drops the acid onto Pickles’ tongue, sticks a tab on his own, and they laugh together as they snort some lines off the car’s dashboard. For three in the morning, the club is still crawling with people - the lights flash overhead, as Pickles takes Tony’s hand and the two of them stumble over to the bar together. 

They drink and they talk some more - about how they both can’t impress their mothers, about their mutual love for weed and cocaine. Pickles hasn’t tried heroin or meth or any other hard stuff yet - something Tony would love to change, if they both had more than one night. ‘That’ll change when you get to LA,’ Tony had said to him. ‘What’s the point of living there if you don’t have drugs?’ 

“Dood,” Pickles slurs, pounding back what’s probably his fifth lemon drop shot. “We should start a fuckin’ band, somedey. I bet we’d fuhhkin rahck together. I can....I can fuckin’ feel it.” 

“Yeah, man. Fuck. I swear to god, Pickles, if my band starts up,” Tony leans against him, colors exploding in front of his vision as he looks at the redhead’s enchanting face, “you’re in. Automatically. Don’t even need to hear you play."

“Naht to brag ‘er nuthin’, but I can hold my own on the guitar, dood,” Pickles purrs, eyes blinking in different intervals, “Like, I bet I could blow yer mind.”

Tony swallows, twitching his button nose, because he’ll just fuckin’ bet. Before he can say as much, the song overhead changes. Pickles instantly loses his shit, making a grabby motion with his left hand for another shot, clutching at Tony with his right. 

“Dood! Fuck! Do’ya hear thet??” He downs the shot, then points upwards towards the ceiling. Tony listens - Motley Crue, of course, and Pickles is grabbing him and yanking him out onto the club’s dance floor. The night is a blur of colors and Pickles’ cackly laughter, of sweaty hands holding his own and wild red hair bouncing as the two of them dance together. He remembers green eyes and a crooked smile, a perfect voice screaming out lyrics, doing shots out of bellybuttons and coke off of toilet bowls. Every time either one hesitates, the other pushes them both forward, almost in a dangerously reckless enabling way. Tony can’t find it in himself to mind. 

Time skips, and the radio croons around them as they drunkenly makeout in the back of Tony’s car, the rain pouring down overhead and wild red hair pouring through his black-painted fingers, but that’s as far as things go before they both end up kissing each other into a warm, contented sleep. Tony wakes up with Pickles laying on top of him, freckled cheek jammed against his own, and in the morning light the redhead looks even more enchanting than he’d remembered in the dark. They nurse their respective hangovers and chat some more as Tony takes him to the bus station - until he makes a pitstop at Fairfax and Wilson, that is. 

“Dood. A pawn shop?” Pickles raises an eyebrow, eyes red-rimmed from their wild night. “Whet’s in ‘dere?” 

“Open your hand,” Tony says, tossing his dark hair behind a shoulder as he reaches into his pocket. Pickles raises an eyebrow, holding out an open palm. Tony gives his hand a shake, sliding some money into it. Pickles looks down, instantly bristling, “No wey, dood. I don’t’—“ 

“Think of it as an investment.” Tony grins, closing Pickles’ fingers. “I know for a fact there’s a gold Les Paul in there. Would suit you pretty fuckin’ well, man.” 

Pickles stammers, green eyes wide, “B-But—“ 

“If you’re gonna be in my band someday, you’re gonna have to have an axe,” Tony shrugs, dark-rimmed eyes glowing as Pickles clutches the fistful of money to his heart. He grins as he all but scrambles out of the car, striding into the shop like he owns the place and coming back out less than ten minutes later. He holds up the guitar to Tony, vibrating with excitement as he pounds out a quick riff on the sidewalk, and the brunette captures that moment and holds onto it forever. 

They reach the bus station, and Tony has never been more sad to see someone go. Neither of them wants to move, as they look at each other and think about long car talks and flashing club lights and Motley Crue, and Pickles is the first one to finally break. 

“Thenks fer everythin’, Tony,” he says softly. “I really hope we bump inta’ each other again somedey.” 

“LA ain’t that big of a city, right?” Tony nudges him, and Pickles smiles fondly in response. The brunette watches as Pickles curls his sweaty fingers around his own, and then his brown eyes flick up to meet the green ones that are staring dolefully at him. 

“Hey, dood. I ain’t really good wit’ regret ‘n alla thet shit, so. Jest in case we never do meet up again...” 

The redhead leans in, and Tony instantly meets him. The kiss is almost gentle, coaxing, and the brunette melts right into it, especially when Pickles cups the sides of his face and swoons into his mouth, sighing longingly. And then, just like last night, it’s over all too quick. 

“Hope t’ see ya around, douchebaeg,” Pickles salutes him with a grin, and then he grabs his duffel bag and his Les Paul, and Tony watches him go. He fingers rise to his lips, ‘Kickstart My Heart’ distantly playing in the background, and he really hopes their paths cross against someday. 

-

“The fuck were you thinking, dickhead? You could’ve---” Tony looks down at the fucker who almost crashed head-on right into his car, and for the first time in two years, his heart starts up again, pounding violently against his chest as he gets an eyeful of wild red hair and huge green eyes, and he gasps, “Pickles?” 

The kid smiles at him wildly, squeaking out, “Tony?!”

And then, everything’s right with the world again. 

-

“Tony, y’look so...different,” Pickles swoons, gaping at him where he sits across from him at the 24-hour diner, cheeks pink and hair in his face and looking so painfully attractive. Tony isn’t the only one who seems to notice, this, however - the roommate (Will, he’s pretty sure) is ogling Pickles just as hard, green eyes longingly dragging over his face and body, and Tony’s eyebrow arches curiously. Pickles doesn’t even seem to notice. 

Tony smirks easily as he digs into his pancakes, cigarette still smoking between his teeth, “It’s my band getup, man. Snakes ‘n Barrels, is what we’re called.” 

“Snakes ‘n Barrels? Gay,” Will rolls his eyes, and Pickles gasps like he’d just gravely offended him. He smacks a hand at his roommate, and the two of them start swatting at each other. Pickles gets Will into a headlock on their side of the booth before he looks up at Tony, “That’s fuckin’ sweet, dood! You still pallin’ around with those guys y’were tellin’ me about?” 

“Yeah. We haven’t like, taken off yet, yknow? Been writing songs ‘n getting our shit together for the last few years,” Tony says easily. “It’s crazy that we’d bump into each other, because y’know, we’re looking for a frontman. Someone who can sing, play the guitar. And if I can remember, you’ve got a killer voice, and a killer axe...” 

Will is still in Pickles’ chokehold, but Tony doesn’t miss the way his expression falls into sheer horror, as Pickles’ eyes light up. The redhead squeaks out, “Dood. Are you—? Really?” 

“I told you, it was an investment,” Tony smiles, flipping his dark hair back over a shoulder, and Pickles’ eyes follow the movement. “The other guys’ll be really cool with it. We don’t want the hassle of auditions ‘n whatever.” 

Will gulps audibly as Pickles puts his hand on top of Tony’s across the table, eyes sparkling like stars. 

_ - _

Tony loves Pickles. He’s pretty sure he’s loved him since the moment he looked out the driver’s side window at him, and he’s not sure if it’s the best or worst thing to ever happen to him. But he loves him and he’s pretty sure that they fucked each other up forever, and it really is tearing him apart. 

_ “You can kiss me, dood,” Pickles whispered, the night after his first practice with Snakes ‘n Barrels. Tony had swallowed nervously, watching Pickles push his red hair out of his own face as he grinned softly at him. “I’ve been thinkin’ about you for a lahng time.”  _

_ So Tony did. He kissed him, outside of Pickles’ shitty apartment as his jealous roommate sat inside and stewed, probably watching out the window as the redhead practically tackled him the moment their lips met, jumping up as his legs hooked around Tony’s waist, and they both were lost to it. One kiss, and he might as well have been digging his own grave.  _

Everything had been so, so good for a second there. Pickles joined his band, he had somehow gotten lucky enough to snag the redhead’s affections. Sammy and Snazz loved the kid right away, and the four of them were suddenly incredibly close, like a posse of high school girls or something, and they did everything together. It was...nice. Playing music together, partying, living life on the edge in the most happening city Tony had ever been to. 

_ “Relax, babe. You did so good,” Tony runs a hand through wild red hair, as Pickles holds his own numb face in his hands. The brunette watches the singer’s green eyes flicker upwards to look at the crack pipe he’d just let himself use for the first time, then over to Tony’s bag that’s chalk-full of other things, harder things. Things Pickles had been able to easily deny because he simply hadn’t had access to them, but now access to Tony’s stash left him with no excuse not to indulge. _

_ “You feeling alright?” Tony asks, strung out right there with him, his thick eyeliner smudged everywhere, sweaty and flush-faced as he idly smokes a bowl on top of it all. Pickles blinks unevenly, chest heaving as he curls up into Tony’s lap. He whispers, more to himself than Tony, “Oh fuck, dood.”  _

Pickles and Will had their falling out, Snakes ‘n Barrels took off, and they became one of the most popular glam rock bands in the country almost overnight. Their first album goes platinum, and suddenly they’re all over MTV, billboards, magazines. And past the music, all anyone cares about - of course - is Pickles. Just like Tony, and Will, the world falls in love with him. In the way that he sings and shreds and strides across the stage like they’re all blessed to be in the same room as him. Tony understood it, of course - there was something electric about him, about the way he flashed that crooked smirk and naturally dripped with that trashy rockstar sex appeal.

_ “Smile at the camera, babe!” An eccentric LA photographer croons at Pickles, snapping photos, and Pickles smolders hazily into the lense with his now-famous “fuck me” eyes, flashing that signature crooked grin. His Les Paul is the only thing between his naked body and the camera, and he looks completely in his element. Like he was born to be a shameless, smacked-out rockstar, and honestly, Tony doesn’t think it’s far from the truth.  _

_ “Honey, would you mind-? Showin’ off the arm?” The photographer asks Pickles, who looks confused for a second before he looks down at the track marks dotting the soft meat of his forearm. He elaborates, “Everyone’s talkin’ about you...y’know, doin’ that. Showing it off would be great publicity!”  _

_ “Oh. Ehh...” Pickles swallows almost like he’s embarrassed, but then, like a switch, he turns it off. He snaps back into uncaring rockstar mode, flipping his hair as he holds his arm up above his head, “No prahblem, dood. This good?”  _

To put it simply, Pickles has problems saying no. When him and Tony are together, just like when they first met, they kind of enable each other when it comes to drugs. Tony is an addict too - on so many things that he can’t even keep count - and they’re a high force to be reckoned with when partying together. And the more power Snakes ‘n Barrels starts getting, the easier it starts to get for them to push each other to the limit. 

_ “D’ya think it’s pahssible, fer sumthin’ to be for forever?” Pickles asks, looking up into Tony’s face as the dark-haired man concentrates hard on doing his eyeliner.  _

_ “Mmm. I dunno,” Tony mutters, bottom lip caught between his teeth, swearing lightly before swiping his thumb underneath Pickles’ eyes. “What’s on your mind, babe?” _

_ “I just...it sounds, I dunno. Really fuckin stupid,” Pickles keeps looking up into Tony’s face through his eyelashes. Tony hums in response, tongue poking out as he moves on to mascara. Pickles leans upwards, pressing his glittery lips against Tony’s thinner ones, and it never fails to get his guitarist’s attention.  _

_ Pickles eyes the bag where Tony stashes his heroin, and he says, “Jest prahmise you won’t fuck this up, alright?”  _

They only make it a few years, before it all starts to fall apart at the top of their game. Suddenly, Tony was watching Sammy lick spilled coke off the rim of a motel toilet bowl, as Bullets OD’d in the bathtub. Suddenly, he was laying with a tied-off, unconscious Pickles in a bed full of groupies as Tony blearily shot up even further. None of them could get ahold of themselves - their music was suffering from it, Pickles was getting more and more irritated with the dysfunction, more and more sick of his glam rock persona, and the media was picking up on the trouble within the band. 

_ “Yer s’posed to fuckin’ love me!” Pickles yells at him, makeup smeared around bloodshot eyes and hair a wreck as he’s pushed and shoved into a cop car. His wrecked Ferrari flames where he crashed it in the side of a Burzum’s in Palo Alto, and he points at Tony and yells through his drunken haze, “You fuckin’ did this to me, it’s your goddamn fault!”  _

Tony can admit that Pickles is right. It’s his fault - his fault that Pickles is famous, his fault that Pickles got hooked on the hard shit, and it’s his fault that the redhead is pulling away from him. But most importantly, it’s his fault that Pickles ever meets Magnus Hammersmith. 

Ironically enough, Magnus had been Tony’s old friend from rehab - the guy who helped him kick his heroin addiction the first time around. They kept in contact occasionally, and Magnus had always been asking to come down to visit - what could it hurt, Tony had wondered? Magnus pals around with them, talks some sense into Pickles, helps him get sober. But it’s just Tony’s goddamn luck, because turns out Magnus had relapsed too, and he was all too eager to get wasted out of his mind with everyone’s favorite lead singer. And it’s so, so blatantly obvious that Magnus has a really big fucking crush on Pickles, and he was always wildly shameless about it. 

Pickles liked to go on talk shows and complain about Tony shooting heroin into his balls, about that infamous night with Snazz in the hotel room - but him and Magnus were the worst of it all. He started turning into someone Tony didn’t recognize, that the other guys were scared of - and the bassist knew that the only way he could even begin to try and fix his mistake is to give Pickles a dreaded ultimatum. Would the singer choose him over drugs, over Magnus? 

_ “I’m sorry, man. Alright?” Tony forces himself to say, hands up passively as Pickles’ jaw drops. He tries to quickly recover before the redhead spirals, “Pickles. You need to go to rehab. You need to get better. I just make it worse, being here makes it—“  _

_ “Lemme...lemme git this straight,” Pickles takes a step closer, chest heaving with fury, and Tony takes one back. “You fuckin’ pump me fulla’ drugs ‘n then when it’s too much trouble fer you, you fuckin’ break up with me?!”  _

_ “I’m trying to help you! You can’t get clean if you’re in this house, Pickles!“  _

_ “So I gahtta quit, but you’re naht gonna put in the effort? Fuck, dood! Whet the fuck is wrahng with you? Yer s’posed to fuckin’ love me!” Pickles yells, the same haunting words he’d thrown at Tony when he crashed his car, and the bassist squeezes his eyes shut. The redhead sobs, fists slamming against Tony’s chest, “You fuckin’ ruined my gahddamn life!”  _

He doesn’t go to rehab. He turns to Magnus, he spirals, and then in no time at all he’s OD’ing in a seedy Tampa club, and Tony’s hearing about it on the news. If he wasn’t so high himself, he would’ve driven down there to see him - but they’re not together anymore, they’re not even bandmates at this point, and the next time they see each other Pickles is surrounded by suited lawyers and some big hulking guy that he’s clearly swooning over, and he won’t even cast a look in Tony’s direction. Maybe he doesn’t even notice that Tony’s there. 

“I fixed your messch, dickhead. Magnusch ischn’t here, isch he?” The roommate says, after the first lawsuit is adjourned, and Tony’s already hurting from the loss (even though he’d go on to win the next two). Will’s voice lowers, green eyes sharp and bitter, “You owe me, like. Literally for the rescht of time.” 

“I know, man,” Tony sighs, watching the dark-haired man wrap his arm around Pickles, jostling him in victory, and the redhead laughs loudly, a blushing, gooey-eyed mess. He seems...okay, at least. His eyes are brighter than Tony’s ever seen him, even on their best day together, as he gazes up at the man whose arm is slung around his shoulder like it was always meant to be there. At least, even if they can’t be happy together, Tony can maybe begin to stop feeling so guilty about ruining someone he’d thought he loved. 

“Look. Like I schaid before,” Will sighs, scratching at the the curly hairs on the nape of his neck. “We’re living the schame schtoryline. I know it fucking schucks to schee him with...” 

He trails off, sad eyes on Pickles and the new guy, and Tony pats him on the shoulder. They‘d never tell the singer, but as the years go on, sometimes they call each other and pal around a little bit. Unfortunately, they’re forever bonded by trying to do right by Pickles, and hurting themselves in the process. 

Fifteen years later, at the first Snakes ‘n Barrels reunion, Pickles, now a krillionaire rockstar, strides onstage with that same golden Les Paul, and the two of them smile tiredly at each other across the stage before playing the show.  



End file.
